Inessa! What did the city look like, lying ruined on its distant shore?—“The most beautiful shore in the world,” her father had called it. Apollo himself must love that city since he so insisted upon its rebuilding. A great mountain rose behind it, greater than Parnassos. This also her father had told her. She began again to wonder who could be selected to rebuild it. No doubt the priests had looked over the whole field and found no one. That was why they had chosen her. There could be no other reason for such choosing. Well, they would fall back upon Karamanor. Karamanor had commercial talent. Theria had always heard of that, and how from a little boy he had always got the best of it in every enterprise. Karamanor would make Inessa prosperous, send her ships over farthest waters, and make her rich as Sybaris. Oh, but that was not what the god wanted! There were plenty of rich colonies in the west. No, surely Apollo had some great entity for Inessa. An _eidolon_ she called it, a spiritual ideal or image containing the force and character of the god himself. Beauty rising from it to meet the beauty of the divine mind. Song in abundance fostered, almost worshipped, there. Beauty of dance and of perfectly formed high-hearted youths. Justice, yes, even to the poor who expect no just dealings. And perhaps some new Philosophy which the god had stored in his heart to give to some philosopher yet unborn and who could be born only in this new place of free speech and high ideals, this place untrammelled by old-world mistakes. She thought of Pythagoras, Parmenides. Yes, it was from the west that the philosopher came and awakened the minds of men. Oh, who could tell what the god of pure, unutterable beauty might do if only the place were prepared? Inessa was a god-appointed place, a god-appointed task. But Karamanor could not do it. Then? What then? It was _her_ task. _Theria’s!_ God-given! She was unworthy, unable! Yes, yes, but the god would help her. Had he not always helped? Ah, out of such difficulties, such despairs, always that hand reached down, always that sudden brightness of mind which was the god’s presence. She seemed to see Inessa on its shore forlorn, waiting for her! She leaped from her bed and stood trembling in the darkness. What had she done? She had sent her father away; she had refused! A sentimental, maudlin refusal! Oh, if her father had only shaken her. He was too gentle these days, was Father. She must tell him quickly, quickly. She must tell him she would go. She felt her way to the door, then hurried along the balcony to her father’s room. He was in the heavy first sleep of night, and when she spoke to him he did not arouse, but only sighed wearily. Melantho sat up. “Are you ill? Is it robbers?” she asked. And learning it was neither she rated Theria in wrathful whispers for disturbing the head of the house.